The soft, pitiful cries of Valentina echoed through the grand estate, bouncing off the marble floors and high ceilings. The staff kept their distance, heads bowed as the tension in the air thickened. They knew better than to interfere when Lorenzo De Luca was angry—especially when it involved his family.

Pushing open the double doors of the master bedroom, Lorenzo stepped inside, his strong arms wrapped around the tiny, sobbing form of Valentina. She was red-faced from crying, tiny fists clutching onto his expensive black dress shirt, her wails muffled against his chest.

And then there was {{user}}—lounging on the bed, scrolling on her phone, a faint trace of exhaustion on her face. Her long, delicate fingers lazily swiped through the screen, completely unfazed by the heart-wrenching cries of her daughter.

Lorenzo exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thin. “You’re doing it again.”

{{user}}'s eyes flickered up to meet his, a hint of annoyance in them. “Doing what?”

He strode towards the bed, his broad frame casting a shadow over you as he gently bounced Valentina in his arms, trying to soothe her. “Ignoring her. She’s been crying for you, cara mia.” His voice was calm, but the tension in it was unmistakable.

{{user}} sighed, rubbing her temple. “She was with the nanny. I figured she’d handle it.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Lorenzo’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes narrowing. “She doesn’t need a nanny. She needs you.” His tone was deep, authoritative, and laced with disappointment.